Frozen Lament
by Haikoui
Summary: Thor is gone. Back in Asgard. And Loki? Loki is gone, too. Falling through nothing and everything. The universe is a funny thing, Loki notices. He hopes he will land soon. Anything but death would be far too cruel. One shot. Takes place after Thor, up to the credits scene. Slight Lokane, mostly Loki based. A Loki characterization exercise. One of many, most likely.


**Title: **Frozen Lament

**Author: **Haikoui

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything Thor or Avengers or Marvel related. I wouldn't be able to make it as successful as it is now.

**Summary: **Thor is gone. Back in Asgard. And Loki? Loki is gone, too. Falling through nothing and everything. The universe is a funny thing, Loki notices. He hopes he will land soon. Anything but death would be far too cruel. One shot. Takes place after Thor, up to the credits scene. Slight Lokane, mostly Loki based. A Loki characterization exercise. One of many, most likely.

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Loki thinks he hasn't ever felt this dead before. The cold isn't unfamiliar, however. When he stepped foot into Jotunnheim, he felt it. But now? This cold isn't the same cold he experienced then. This is lifeless. This is the universe. This is the stinging of death chasing him through the depths of space.

What does he remember? Not much, that's for certain. He remembers Odin, his eyes harsh and his sole, deprecating word short and unforgiving. He remembers Thor, his anguished scream, one that Loki had half wanted to drown from his throat and half wanted to pull out and listen to forever.

Loki can feel his mind warping. He can feel space and time pulling at his very being, and he briefly wonders just how long he has been falling. It feels like minutes have passed by. Mere minutes. Perhaps, if he bothers, he can tick off seconds. He swears Thor's scream is still echoing around him. Yet, and he acknowledges this with pain, he knows it has been much, _much_ more time than what he believes.

Some part of him hopes Heimdall can see him. Some part of him hopes Heimdall will bring him back. And some part of him attempts to summon the voice to his lips (" – dall," he hisses, shivering, " – take – pl – _please –_ "), but he can hardly form the words to successfully call the gatekeeper.

Another part of him hopes – prays – that Heimdall's eyes have turned blind, have become unseeing to the pain Loki is undergoing. Because Loki hates them. He hates all of them. He hates every single one of them. He thinks death (rather than this persistent cold, which so horribly nudges at the memory of his true origins) will be less cruel than this everlasting fall.

Maybe seconds pass by, maybe minutes, hours, days, months – he doesn't know. But he does know he has visions. Horrible ones. His mind is torn apart, and he can feel himself losing sight of what Asgard truly looks like. He sees a dark landscape ridden with skeletons and rotting flesh. He sees stars of a world foreign to that of Asgard's, and he cannot remember for the life of him what sky his childhood home was graced with. He hears voices in his head as he falls. The universe is mocking him in his descent to Valhalla knows where. And, oh, he is so, so cold.

He learns of The Other, and a being named Thanos. Some promise – some _power_ – and his mind twisting and turning and shivering in the shadow of possession. He can hardly remember his own name by the time he gains control of his body once more, and by then, he is falling again.

Loki closes his eyes and sees a face now drenched with hatred, not love. He sees Thor. He sees Thor, and he wants to cleanse his own hands with Thor's blood.

What was life before this fall? What was Asgard? Thor? His brother? He had no brother. Oh, he was meant for the throne.

But anything, anything would be better than this torturous spiraling descent into oblivion. He hopes he will land soon.

When he opens his eyes, he sees the stars of a realm so forgotten until very recently. Midgard, he realizes. And he wishes he could throw the entire planet into a gaping pit of fire.

The cold never leaves from his skin. Neither does the pressure he feel on his mind, looming over him, commanding him. He does not fight it. It feels _right._

When he sees Jane Foster, and when he follows her, and when he sits in her trailer as she sleeps, and when he stands beside her as she works, and when he learns of the stars and of Midgard and of _her _from her own actions and words, he hates her even more, because he cannot stand the pain that comes across him when he thinks that maybe, _maybe_ –

But then he becomes furious because he is supposed to loathe her. He is supposed to want to disseminate her limbs across the pathetic town she lives in. Supposed to shut her pragmatic, yet hopeful voice _up_ so as to not hear one more word about _Thor._ Thor this, Thor that – at this rate, he hopes Thor shows up simply for Loki to dangle his lifeless body right in front of his beloved Jane's eyes.

When Loki finds Erik, and when Loki finds the Tesseract, and when Loki knows his time is coming, to show them all what they have given up, he decides to spend one more day with Jane. She is at the town's library when he tracks her down. Of course. He ignores the voice in his head that insists that at least she is knowledgeable, like he is himself.

And she is reading Norse mythology. Not of Thor, he realizes. Not of Sif, not of Odin, Frigga, Volstagg, or any of the nine realms or Idunn and Valhalla. Of _him._ Of _Loki._

Taking notes.

He should be furious.

But instead, he breathes over her shoulder as he inspects her words. Vaguely, he appreciates the goose bumps that appear on her naked neck as his frigid breath hits her softly, but she barely shivers, and he assumes she believes it is only the air conditioning of the library. His eyes focus on the strokes of her pen and the sentences she pores over in the book.

_What is Loki's favorite pastime?_

_Favorite constellation?_

_Instrument?_

The list goes on and on. Mundane facts – that is all they are, Loki notices. And he cannot recall a single one of them. For once, he feels at a loss. He feels as though he is required to answer. Obligated to spend some time with her and to leave some sort of hint, even if it means he must dig deep within the recesses of his mind to remember what he enjoys doing.

He ponders over the constellation question. He cannot remember Asgard itself, let alone Asgard's sky – all he can recall is his need to finish his assigned task. But he decides to answer the question regardless.

When Jane leans back into her chair and yawns, her eyes shutting in the process, he waves a cloaked hand over her list and watches as his answers form in a perfect script beneath her slightly untidy scrawl. As she straightens and looks back down to her paper, he sees her mouth form a small "o," her eyes going wide.

"Scorpio," she says to herself. "His favorite is Scorpio. And he likes to study the cosmos. Sometimes he focuses on magic and tomes, rarely on weapons. He used to play a sort of fiddle. Color – his favorite color is gold, but he dresses in dark green because it is the complementary color of red, and he hates blue. Interesting. He's one thousand, two-hundred and six years old. Jesus Christ. Wow. Wow!" And she goes on, mumbling, her eyes alight with excitement.

He wonders if she remembers his desecration of her town any longer. He wonders if she cares. He hasn't heard Thor's name escape from her lips even once since he's been with her today. Slowly, he feels the cold that has stuck with him since his fall from Asgard alleviate.

He cannot read minds and he isn't quite sure that he wants to, in this case.

And at once, he is so, so angry. He sees red. He wants to snap her pretty little neck and show to the world what her curiosity has done to her. But he isn't mad _at _her, no – she is useful. He's seething at the fact that he has forgotten so much of what has made him valuable. He has been lied to, tricked – him! The God of Mischief and Lies himself! And what made him realize it? A lowly mortal. He hates himself. He hates himself. He _hates _himself.

Without turning back, he strides out of the library, and allows the cold to contract his core once more.

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**Written on a whim. I will write a Lokane piece soon where they actually have some physical contact and interaction, haha.**

**I cannot wait for Thor 2 to come out. That's all I'm waiting for, really. I'm psyched.**

**Review please!**


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